


Martyrdom

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: Agony (Game)
Genre: Adult Content, Agony, Blood, Demons, Fire, Gen, Going to Hell, Hell, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Martyrdom, Mild Language, Religious Content, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: With the release of the game, Agony, I thought I’d put up some stuff.– There is sex, violence, and suicide referenced in this—so do be aware! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!– I have been slacking on my dark writing as of late and that’s why this is going up!





	Martyrdom

Slippery, organic, bones jutted jaggedly out of the landscape, fallen beasts of great magnitude. Pests crawling about the great mountainous world, made of flesh and riddled with worms. Doorways of teeth. And something in the distance, with great wind-beating wings.

Those same protruding landscape-bones became spits for the dying and suffering while the long-pondered Red Goddess sat among the crimson mists under a blood-moon. Said to be known for making deals with the dead.

The Martyrs lolled and shuffled among the halls, moaning and crying. Cutting themselves and feeling the tender centres of their bodies and others in the privacy of the dark to feel the sensation of living and pleasure again.

They were weak—as was the nature of being condemned to Hell, and to martyrdom. Vulgar and squalid. Squatting in the humid crooks of their new home.

Mere piss-ants crushed under their new jack-booted demon overlords. Liberally tortured and eaten. Consumed.

War criminals, murderers, people who had committed atrocities against humanity. And were _damned_.

Though it seemed some ended up there by mere _folly_.

Not that the Devils cared. Not that _anyone_ cared. All were monsters once they had entered the gates of Hell, their precious _gods_ had cast their loving gaze away from the disgraced.

And so, there were no expectations for them—the _only_ advantage to their name. Nobody would expect an uprising. Not even the actual uprising itself.

But most—if not all—were too afraid to truly stand. Afraid to move against them.

Those who had nothing to lose—all of them—would throw themselves screaming into the cthonic depths to end the suffering.

Some babbled into the shadows, pressed far into the corners, reciting fragments of scripture and praying for forgiveness, praying that their gods would lift them up from this... _precipice_.

Many had been there for eons, many for hours, and plenty for seconds, awaiting their eternal judgement. If they weren’t already experiencing it.

Some stumbled upon the mad, and were eaten alive, stripped of their skin, and muscles, and sinew, and finally their eyes plucked out by vultures when they finally lie still, and fading.

They were not mourned. Not missed. The Martyrs went about their business, they need only mourn themselves.

The famed Red Goddess oversaw all sects of these piteous beings. While she did not consider them more than pests, she was said to have pitied the Martyrs, and granted that if they were to find themselves in her presence she may restore them back to life. 

Whispers of something greater came to her from the ether. From the darkness. From between the shrieks of death and the moans of blasphemers.

She would remain stalwart, the fair daughter of Hell, the princess that need not be rescued, but was the rescuer.

... But I did not know if she _truly_ existed, loose descriptions said she was monstrous, but her face was plated with porcelain and red fluid ran down her face from her eyes and scalp. And her gaze itself, forlorn and distant. _Foggy_. The future lie somewhere in the distance her sight reached.

Few had heard of any escapees from Hell, I had asked so many, and heard fragments of story. Smatterings of a dubious history. A dubious _existence_.

All I understood was that I had to crawl through their world, see the horrors, the bodies lain bare before me. Meet with the sages and wise-men. And perhaps commit atrocities of my own to open doors that nobody else would dare open.

I would no doubt be bleeding by the end of it all, and would prostrate myself at Her grace.

It was a great and dear risk. But it was my only choice.

The solitude of death and silence was punctuated by the distant sounds of the countless denizens, I had never understood true agony until I had taken that long fall—far, far down.

Memories dissolved with the rest of me, recollections burned like photographs, and the brain and soul melted down into blood and ash.

I was reduced to a second infancy in Hell, blind and groping in the dark on my hands and knees.

I was kicked in the mouth, teeth crushed, and blood running down my chin. A greeting I would not soon forget—a sharp hoof to the jaw.

And I learned that they cared not for deeds done in life. Instead they meticulously stripped you down, bit by bit, to the bare realisation that you are _nothing_.

Agony was this:

Watching it happen, feeling it happen, hearing it happen—as every bone is crippled. Feeling _every insignificant cell_ in your miserable body searing. Fire crawling up your worthless body—legs, groin, chest, and finally _head_ —and swallowing you up. All of this at once, but unable to stop it—unable to move or fight.

There was nothing else that could easily describe Agony... but as _Agony_ itself.


End file.
